yesterday,
i tripped over you again.
today, i made sure to
tie double knots.

yet, here i am again.
on the ground.

the sky seems
further away, (it is),
i’ve killed an army
of bugs with the weight
of my being;
the clouds tower over me,
the wind jumps
over my head.

i find myself tripping often.

only, these days
it’s you that seems further away,
i **** a lot
of time with the weight
of this feeling;
your absence towers over me,
my love jumps
over your head.

I always waste time,
Thinking about what I could have said,
You never look back,
You said what you would have said,
I don’t know why I regret it so much,
The remorse in my eyes,
Says more about how I feel,
Than the words stumbling out of my mouth,
This nagging feeling of inconveniencing you,
Obscures the actions I make,
I feel so lost in the wake of this moment,
It’s as if I had been brought back into a dream,
Turned into the nightmare I felt before,
And I’m wondering if this time,
I’ll end up falling through the never ending floor,
Because I came back to you,
In a state of pure vulnerability,
And this time you truly rejected me.

I am a rose growing from the concrete.
Already birthed into negativity,
just finding a way to bloom in hard times.
Harder than concrete could ever be.
So why do you want to hurt me?
I've already struggled.
No need to throw a stone at an innocent rose.
I've already cried.
No need to step on me.
Please don't hurt me anymore.
You'll crush a beautiful rose who made herself grow from the water of her fighting will.
My demise belongs to me,
not a person looking for an easy victim.
I'm the only rose left on this sidewalk.
All the others rotted in the sun,
Or got caught up in life's daily stampede.
But me,
I lived to plant my seed.
So leave me be,
Don't even pluck my petals,
Or stand too close.
Just leave me alone to my peace,
nestled into the grooves of the concrete to which I was born.

tldr

poems contain pieces of my soul, captured by clicks of fingers on phones
the scratching noises within my pen
the giving ups and the starting agains

i wasn’t aware that when i shared some with you
i wanted a piece of you in return
not an applause or a compliment
perhaps an acknowledgement of what you learned

did you feel a melting sensation? did my pain seep into your soul? did you become more educated? did i help you become more whole?

quite literally, my poems are a book,
a journal, a diary possessing bits of my life
moments that cause you to emit a giggle
all the way to experiences i hate to give light

tldr, it kind of hurts
when you ask to go beneath my skin
from now on, I’m wearing a jacket
to keep the careless from within

let's run away and never look back
this place isn't for us
it hurts me—
all these missed connections,
this guarded vulnerability

i never want to come back here
never again—
these memories i buried
keep coming back to haunt me
it hurts so much i can feel it in my bones

i don't want to listen to the wind
as it whispers all its secrets
i don't want to look at this familiar town
as it drips pain like honey
not anymore—

i want nothing to do with these
blood-soaked histories
let's run away—
leave everything behind
in this ****** town where everything hurts

A stranger once asked me, "What is your deepest darkest secret?" I laughed at his curiosity, hesitated for a few moments and then gave up.
"I can't think of any at the moment." I replied.
Lie.
"I'll have to get back to you."
Another lie.  
My deepest darkest secret is the words that spill from the ink of my pen into limericks, narratives and sonnets. It is the raw, most pure form of my fears, hopes and dreams.  
It is poetry.